A Story Fit For a Squib
by Rabby
Summary: A look into a certain squib's past: everyone has their demons to deal with and not everyone can ever get past them. Violent themes? Not so much a story as a look into his past.


A Story Fit For a Squib

By Rabby

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters are property of WB and J.K. Rowling; I'm not making a pound off of this, but I am working off some of that lovely Christmas cheer + boredom! ^^ Always good to have something to do…

AN: I don't really expect people to take to this story... But everyone has a past. I wanted to really get someone to think about his. As Eka helped me realize, the little people really deserve to be recognized too! ^^ Thank you for that revelation! There's something I've always really liked about this particular character, which is why I chose to write about him specifically. Maybe I'll be able to pin it in this?

Anyway, please R/R, ne? My first HP fic, and my first actual fic-type piece in about 3 or 4 years. I really just want your opinions on Filch… ;D Any questions or constructive criticism is really appreciated if you have any, too! ^^ Thanks!

He was a tough man; cold and unforgiving. Whether it was from time or experience, no one ever really wondered. There were scars that they probably never took notice of on his face. Those, they could see. Scars on his body. No one saw those, though it didn't matter. Somewhere, there might have been emotional scars. But there was no one in the world who he ever let close enough to see those. Not a friend, not a lover – not that he'd ever had either – and not even himself. If they were there at all, they were probably kept secret behind those barriers he had set up before he could remember needing them.

He'd probably lead a decent life, too… Well, there was _decent_ and there was decent. There was decent to the world, where everything wasn't that bad, but wasn't that great either. But then, there was decent to him, where things could be worse. He had a career that he almost enjoyed on the rare occasion. He was safe and stable financially. Morally, no one ever really liked to question him. Or maybe they never bothered to. Or they did, but it seemed that they could forget all too easily.

Since he'd started school as a boy, he'd always been just a bit different. Even as the greasy man he was now, rotten and cruel, he could still remember something of his innocent nature when he'd first set his eyes on the vast grounds of Hogwarts. Hogwarts. The name had strength of it's own; it's own personality even. It was well known throughout his world. Throughout Britain, there was nothing better. Nothing like it. It was special. He was someplace special. Secure. Bound to make new friends, acquaintances, enemies, and to engage on his own delightful adventures – just like every boy his age would think.

But from the moment he'd disembarked from the Hogwarts Express, there was something that seemed out of place. His tie bore the school crest, as did every other student who had never once stepped inside those thick castle walls, and he noted only too soon how the other students of his year had already paired off during the train ride and had began to weave their own friendships. There was already that familiar sense that all was lost and that someone – some greasy young boy – would again be friendless for his schooling years.

And so it was; he was sorted and went to classes and attended meals and handed in assignments. Just like any other student would. Just like any other student with friends would. Except that he wasn't any other student and he had no friends. He was that thin, greasy, rather untalented boy who people never really noted passing in the halls or recognized when they had to pass back tests. And those who did notice him were probably the kind that most would rather avoid.

Some people would have gone on ignoring him. Others might take pity on him and talk to him now and then. But then there were those who would see this lack of recognition that students and professors alike displayed and use it to their advantage.

It happened not too far into the first term - perhaps a week, maybe two – that a group of boys approached him, offering kind words, showing similar interests, and promising something of a lasting friendship. After a point, everyone is desperate, and at this first sign of hope, he latched on, like anyone would.  He wanted to be part of a group, like anyone would. But he didn't see the obvious truth, as most people would.

Before anyone realized what had happened, his name was being murmured all over the school; the hallways were thick with gossip as he walked, his professors looked down on him as he sat, and his friends encouraged him as he worked. Worked… Dirty was what it was. It was a dirty business they'd buried him in, and he was trapped doing their dirty work. The "friendship" revealed it's true nature as quickly as it had deceived him. Trapped in that dirty mountain of work they set on him. Of course he'd refused; any good, respectable student would have refused. Refusal didn't matter though. For every human strength there is something – some way – to break human willpower. Words. Emotions. Violence. Acts… There was always a way, and no matter what, there was always one person to blame for the mischief that made itself known throughout Hogwarts as soon as a certain someone had set about the act of doing it.

He was useless for anything else. People would say as much on a regular basis. 

"That boy," they'd say. "That boy; he's never done anything but cause trouble. He sits through is classes all right, and he stares blankly across the room, bored as they come. Never even showed a hint of any ability to do much else."

"A lot of people reckon he's nothing but a squib."

"Ah, well, a lot of people reckon students who show no ability, interest, or respect for the school grounds ought to leave or be removed."

He met with his professors after classes. He met with the head of his house. He met with the Head Master. No one was impressed. No one should be, though. No one saw through that ugly, filthy exterior of his. No one saw the innocent boy that lay someplace inside. Or maybe no one wanted to. Maybe he imagined they didn't – because he didn't want to have to see it either. His group of companions normally ignored him when they didn't want anything, and whenever they asked, he'd simply comply. Anything had to be better than their reactions to his refusal: detention, or maybe even expulsion. The head master seemed to think there was something about him that was worth keeping in the school, though, because he was still there. Still there and still causing as much trouble as ever. He was the school's almighty pest.

But that was when things were small. Forgivable. Forgettable.

As they always do, things reached a point where they went out of hand. He was asked to do things more and more serious, until he was caught in the midst of trying to administer a potion that was strong enough to shame most memory charms to a top-notch third year student. That was it; the peak of the ice burg.

The professors seemed to have designs on what actions they wanted imposed on him - as if they'd been anticipating it since he had become Hogwarts' resident troublemaker. Before long, he had been sent to a small, cramped room, full of nasty devices he could but hope were there just for show. There was a man there, sitting in an old chair with rotting stuffing dangling out in places, behind a cluttered desk. The man was imposing. The man was the only person the boy had ever really feared as a punishment. Everyone knew him. Well, everyone knew who he was. Everyone knew not to be so bad that you were sent to him.

He had been that bad. And he soon learned that those devices – those damned objects – the dreaded _things_ – were most definitely _not_ simply for show.

The cycle had continued anyway: on one side, the procedure to make him commit the crimes for the select group of criminals, and on the other, another form of the same procedure to convince him to stop. 

The cycle continued. 

And continued. 

Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain.

And one day it was realized what had happened. What was happening.

Just one slip of the tongue. Everything was the same by now.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain.

After so much pressure, anyone would crack.

It was all the same anyway. The same reactions.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Hurt.

Just one slip of the tongue. Who knew that it could change so much. Who was it that was causing the hurt now, though? Was it _them_? Or was it _him_? Them. Him. Them. Him. Everything was the same…

It must be them.

His voice rang out, he screamed, and everything came together, fell together, crashed to the ground, burning with the raw truth of it all.

Because it wasn't _them_.

It was _him_.

And everything changed.

Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.

Who would have known such an unattractive, skinny, greasy boy could hurt so much. Could hide so much. Could try to protect himself against the unknown so much that nothing made sense.

To him it was all everywhere.

Everything was something else.

If he told, _they'd_ hurt. _He_ wouldn't hurt him, but they'd be mad. _They'd_ get in trouble. _They'd_ hurt him once they'd been dealt their punishment. And then the cycle would pick up again. Wouldn't it?

If he didn't tell, _he'd_ hurt him. _They_ wouldn't hurt him, because he'd obey. He'd get in trouble. _He'd_ hurt him while he dealt him his punishment. And the cycle would continue.

But something went wrong, and somehow, the cycle was torn to pieces. They were gone and they didn't come back. He stopped having to visit that office. He was supposedly a normal student now. But he wasn't.

There was nothing that he knew how to concentrate on in class. Nothing he recognized anymore or that he wanted to learn to recognize. When he tried, nothing happened. He'd become distracted, distraught, distant. Nothing would happen like when anyone else waved that piece of twig and muttered an incantation. He still wasn't normal. He hardly tried, and before long, it didn't make any difference how much he did try.

Nothing happened.

He was useless. A squib, they called him. Just as they had before he'd been removed from his cycle. And it hurt.

Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.

Anything was better than that emotional swelling of his defeated pride. He wanted it all back: the cylce, the people, the Pain.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain…

Anger. Anger was everywhere he was. He wanted to hurt. To make pain. He became obsessed with it. Hurt. Pain. Hurt. Pain. Glorious; they were so glorious, and beautiful and like nothing else. They made emptiness seem like nothing and made you swell up with something terrible. He could just remember how it felt.

A squib, they called him.

A squib.

Good for nothing.

No talent.

Different.

And so that was that. No matter what, he was different. No talent now. Good for nothing now. That was different before. He was the troublemaker. But that was bad. Troublemakers needed to be punished. Pain. Good for nothing…

He was a tough man; cold and unforgiving. He'd been offered to replace _him_ when the time came that he needed replacing. He'd been thrown into an irreversible society; he might as well stay in familiar surroundings. Familiar. The screams of pain. A slip of the tongue. How it had helped him. He was still different, but now he was good for something. He wasn't the troublemaker he was, and it was his job to protect the peace that was Hogwarts. Just like _he'd_ done. The screams of pain. A slip of the tongue.

A slip of the tongue…

He wanted that. He wanted that power. To hurt. To make pain. To cause that slip of the tongue. To protect someone else from the hurt that he'd endured in silence until he'd given over to that overwhelming power.

People knew him as cold and unforgiving. As blood-thirsty. Always saying how "the old ways" were better – that the Head Master was foolish to have abandoned those old ways. The whips. The screams they caused. Most people said he was a deranged man. Emotionally disturbed. Different.

Somewhere, there might have been emotional scars. But there was no one in the world who he ever let close enough to see those. If they were there at all, they were probably kept secret behind those barriers he had set up before he could remember needing them.

But then again… They might not be.


End file.
